Free Then Came You: A Prequel to The McPhee Clan by Jillian Hart

cupping the back of her head gently and tugged down the thickness of the material until it rested on her mother's wasted, skeletal shoulders.
    "You pulled my hair. You're just worthless." Maureen snapped, pruning her face, although only the left side moved. "I don't know why I had you, you are a bane to my existence. A waste, that's what you are."
    With forbearance, Aumaleigh gritted her teeth, determined not to let her temper rise. That was what Mother wanted. "Remember what the doctor said? You're to stay calm and rest. You must stay very calm. He thinks you had a small stroke last night."
    "That doctor." One side of Maureen's mouth curled up with a snarl. "There's an imbecile if I ever saw one. Who does he think he is, that's what I want to know? Strutting in here as if he's a gift to the world, lying. That's what he's doing. I'm not dying. This sickness is all because of him. It's his doing, that medicine he wants me to take. I'm not taking it anymore. I'm too smart for that."
    "All right." Aumaleigh knew better than to argue, for that would only escalate Mother's behavior. With a sigh, she shook out the nightgown's long sleeve and reached for her mother's withered arm.
    "Don't insult me, you stupid girl." Maureen jerked up her good arm, although she had little control of it. "I can do this myself. Why I have to put up with you, I don’t know."
    Hard to know what to say to that. Aumaleigh's jaw strained, her chest felt ready to explode from everything she held inside. For fifty two years, she'd been Maureen's daughter and was well used to her treatment, even if it hurt. Surely she could take it a little bit longer.
    She held the nightgown's sleeve as Maureen attempted to stab her hand into the arm hole, time and time again. Finally, she succeeded. Sweat dotted the old woman's forehead and she'd turned gray from the effort.
    At least now she'd likely be quiet while Aumaleigh finished dressing her. Making sure the sleeve was in place, there was no fabric wrinkled or bunched to cause discomfort, she reached across, lifted her mother's paralyzed left arm and fitted it into the sleeve. Gently peeled the covers back, bit by bit, she eased the fabric down over her mother's wasted body, easing her gently forward when necessary, lifting her up until the warm flannel draped her completely.
    "Now the warm pair of slippers Maebry knitted for you." Aumaleigh fetched them from the nightstand, soft, thick wool in tiny, perfect stitches to keep in the heat. She sat on the edge of the bed. "These will keep you toasty. By the feel of things, I need to put more wood on the fire."
    "Maebry should have built it up before she left. That lazy girl, I know you let her go to bed last night. And with her work unfinished!" Maureen had developed a slur, but that didn't lessen the bite to her words. "And if she thinks she can charm a man into marrying her and paying off her contract, she'd better think again. She's my servant."
    "Why shouldn't Maebry find love?" Aumaleigh fought down anger. Failed. Probably because it was an old issue, one that hurt too much to think about. She turned her back to her mother, scrunched up the knit slipper she held and wedged it onto Maureen's gnarled and bloodless foot.
    But the memories came up anyway, images of a tall, strapping man with a rumbling baritone—even in memory and after all these years the sound made her melt. She squeezed her eyes shut, growing still for a moment, keeping the memory inside...and the pain.
    "Maebry belongs to me, that's why!" Mother huffed, struggling as a breathing fit took her over. She wheezed, grew red, but that didn't stop her tirade. "I bought her fair and square, I own her, and she'll serve her term or else."
    Hard to know how to answer that. Especially since the doctor had been clear, any upset could trigger another stroke. Aumaleigh shook her head, tugged too hard on the slipper and left it slightly askew on Mother's foot. A hot, hard ball of outrage expanded in the pit of her